Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
((How do you respond?))
Veyra pauses, her hood casting a shadow over her sharp, grey-green eyes, though strands of her fiery ginger hair peak out. She scans the room, eyes lingering on the candles and shadows more than the old hag at first. Her movements are cautious, deliberate, each step soft on the tattered floor. She finally slides onto the cushion, hesitant at first, keeping her posture guarded. "I... just need a place to rest," she says lightly, voice steady but clipped. She doesn't look at the hag directly, instead focusing on the candle's flicker. "Travelling alone is... complicated". Her fingers trace the edge of the cushion, restless, but she keeps her face mostly unreadable. "I'm not one for stories. People rarely keep their word, or remember those who trust them. I've learnt that the hard way..." She looks up, finally meeting the hag's eyes. There's a calmness, an aura of trustworthiness that Veyra can't ignore. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders eases a little, and she gently flips back her hood, revealing her face.
"I grew up with... a group. They were like family... but one night, it all fell apart." Her eyes flicker to the candlelight as she explains. "They said we were a family. I believed them. trusted them. Foolish. I gave them all I had, my skills, loyalty, my life... almost." Her fingers tighten around a loose strand of hair, twisting it absently. "I can still see it. Their faces, smiling before disaster. I ran because that's what I do. I survive. I always survive. But it doesn't always leave you, does it? that sting, that hollow... knowing the people you trusted most would turn on you without a second thought." She exhales slowly, letting her shoulders slump a little. She let her emotions get the better of her, a crack in her armour. She glances up at the hag, her hand nervously moving from the strand of hair to the edge of the cushion again. "What I have learnt from them, what I've had to carry since. I moved alone for a long time. I watch for knives, lies, and I survive." She goes quiet for a moment, her eyes scanning around the room, then back to the hag, a smirk slowly making its way onto her face.
"You wouldn't happen to know someone in need of a mercenary, would you?"
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